Christmas

Every Christmas morning after we left Cochrane for Timmins, we’d wake up to my father rushing about the house, hammering on doors, declaring that Santa had been here! We’d leap or drag ourselves out of bed, depending on the year, leap at young ages, drag later. We’d eat a hasty breakfast, despite our ogling the feast of presents about the tree, open our gifts and be left to play with the toys for a time; not too long though. There was preparations to be made: every year for 10ish years after leaving Cochrane, we were to return to the homeland for celebrations with the family, eat an early lunch, pack up the car with the gifts to be given, and pile in, Cookie at my mothers’ feet in the front. I can’t recall if Piper, our next dog, ever made the pilgrimage with us, if she had, she'd have been in the space at the back window (that’s where she loved to lounge for the hour-long trip).

I recall many such long commutes back to Cochrane, getting car sick, puking into the ditch despite tripping on Gravol. I was not a good traveller then.

We’d arrive at Nanny’s (my mother’s mother’s) house, where we’d open gifts, then be herded back into the car for the short drive to Gramma’s (my father’s mother’s) with Nanny in tow (my mother’s parents were always invited if I recall properly, certainly my Nanny after Poppa passed away), where we opened gifts again. Those gifts were packed away in the trunk of the car before my uncles, aunts, and cousins arrived.

Gramma’s house already smelled like dinner when we arrived. There was a great deal of cooking to be done in such a small galley kitchen. Food was piled high on the dinner table, arranged in depth, buffet style. Only Grandpa sat at the table, holding court on how much anyone might take, even though there was enough food for three times our number (about 30ish people in what I would describe as a wartime house). Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, pickles and beets and Lord knows what else, my memory fails me. There were six types of pie: apple, cherry, raisin, mince, pecan (?) and sugar (?), one for each son’s preference. They each had to have their favourite. And they’d have been disappointed had their personal favourite not been there. Family politics. Enough said.

Grandpa would always call me over, draw me in and hug me, and slip a two-dollar bill into my pocket.

There wasn’t enough room at the table for everyone. Obviously. And with thirty people in attendance, seating was an issue. Families sort things out, and by the time I came along, a system had long since been adopted. The adults ate in the living room, with paper plates in wicker baskets on their laps. We cousins were arranged on the stairs, each to his own riser, Keith and I sharing a small bi-fold table at the base.

Gramma never ate until everyone else had. And by then the Great Clean-up was in full swing, the food and dishes tackled by the women, teens and adults alike; but not by Gramma, though, she was eating.

The men congregated in the living room, the chairs and stools arranged, years of Daily Press Carol booklets laid out, one to a seat. Once the Great Clean-up was complete, we sang, we soloed. I most certainly soloed. I was expected to sing “Rudolph, The Red-nosed Reindeer” every year. Tradition, you know how it goes. There was no accompaniment though: I don’t know if anyone could play anything portable. Karen could play piano, but there was none present. Gramma played fiddle, but I don’t remember it ever being brought out. I recall French songs being sung after the carols were complete. Beer flowed. There were chips and snacks and such, because that’s what we all needed, more food.

We kids took that as our queue to retreat downstairs where there was tabletop hockey and an absence of adults and alcohol and demands by our elders to bring them more. I think the elder cousins may have played street hockey out front or may have just slipped away to party with friends.
If they did, Keith and I were oblivious to it all, having lost interest in all things adult, even all things teen. Later still, Karen and I were packed up by our parents to go back to Nanny's for the night. Over the next few days, we visited...everyone. It was exhausting, fun, but exhausting. Christmas would never be as exciting as it was then.

Allergies

I’ve been plagued by allergies for most of my life. Anyone who’s ever seen me suffer through an outbreak of hives, especially in those early ones, understands what I mean when I say plagued.

The first, and the worst, was in Grade 5, in the spring, just before our school celebrated some sort of Chinese festival. We’d spent weeks preparing for it (I have no idea how long we prepared for it, but we’d begun before I was stricken, and I was still stricken when the celebration was complete) when one weekend morning I woke to horrible itching. I scratched to no relief, and when I finally found myself in front of a mirror, was horrified by the angry red welts covering my face, rendering me somewhat unrecognizable. I called out to my mother in a panic, and her reaction to my new look was less than comforting. Further inspection confirmed the presence of hives everywhere, some small and round and only beginning to blossom; others mature, fully grown, and in all manner of shape, soon to be subsumed again within the confines of my skin. About three and a half weeks would pass before I was free of them, but not before my hands had swollen to the point where I could not even bend my fingers, my feet so bloated and sensitive to touch that I could not even walk, reduced to crawling about. Worse still was the blow to my vanity: the hives never left my face, painfully altering my features in some new caricature of self from first to last day. Begging sickness and hiding from view, I missed the entire festival, including the much anticipated Chinese food feast. Mr. Litchfield made a special trip to my house that day, carrying with him enough food for my whole family. I was thrilled, but I also refusing to come to the door until he’d left. My mother would have none of that, coaxing me from hiding to thank Mr. Litchfield for his kindness. Mr. Litchfield treated my fragile vanity with more tact than I thought anyone could muster, and never once showed any of the shock or loathing I’d expected.

Testing was prescribed. I was instructed to abstain from those things I was exposed to most often...to see what might happen, or not. Then the day arrived. The allergist had arrived and inked my arms with numbers, and over each was scratched an oil, an extract of some fruit or vegetable, some dust or dander, some sap or some some-such. I can’t say how many allergens were exposed, but there were certainly enough, including dog dander. I had to abstain from those things, which apparently was to include exposure to dog dander. There was some deliberation about what to do with Cookie, our dog. I would have nothing to do with being rid of her. She was an integral part of my existence.

Monthly shots were prescribed, not that I believe ever had any effect in halting, or even lessening the effects of further outbreaks, whatsoever.

So, further outbreaks followed, and were endured. Once, when renovations were again in full swing at the Hart Street house (still some years before the addition), I was sleeping in the basement, as my bedroom was reeking of paint, the red decorations poised to be put in place. Upon waking, I climbed the stairs to wash my face, which was feeling unusually tight, just then. I gazed down the upstairs hall and wondered, in my morning confusion, who the kid was down the hall. My heart skipped a beat upon recognition. It was me. It was my reflection in a mirror set out and leaning against the far wall. My face was in such a state as to render me unrecognizable, even to myself.

I learned, in time, to take the shock I would see in others’ faces in stride. I had no choice, I could not hide away from the world for a month at a time, two or three times a year.

But it did get better. Years found the outbreaks lesser, and in time infrequent.

I learned an important lesson throughout those ensuing years. Most people have difficulty with deformity, in whatever form it may exhibit itself. They retreat from it. And from the person. Dealing with that hardens one’s soul.

Cookie

Cookie was my first dog, or more accurately, she was my parents’ dog, even more accurately, she was my father’s dog. My mother could call for her until she was blue in the face without result. She’d give up, my father would open the door, call out for her once, and Cookie would be at the door in minutes. She was a corgi, a very popular breed then, as the Queen had a kennel full of them.

Cookie may have been the runt of her litter, but she was a giant in my eyes. She was my first companion. Loving, protective, always present. She followed me everywhere. And like I said, she helped me out from time to time while I learned to keep my balance.

When I began attending school, she was waiting in the window for my return. My mother tells me Cookie would just rise and go to the window about five minutes before I returned. (I've witnessed Hunter do the same, Piper, Sassy, Jasper too; dogs must be very aware of their internal clock.)

Cookie was smart. She could be cunning, too. There was this kid on the street that used to taunt her. She’d end up choking herself at the end of her rope as the kid wound her up, time and again, laughing at her; until the day she pretended not to reach, only advancing halfway up the extent of her rope. The taunting kid neglected to notice Cookie’s slack rope and entered her range. And then she rushed him. The kid was so surprised, he staggered back, falling on his ass.

Cookie was with us for some years after we moved to Timmins. Then she got cancer. And she died. Her passing was likely the first taste of intense grief I had ever experienced.

But that was still years away.

A Beginning, Cochrane

Some time ago, I found myself thinking about those first, largely, emotional snapshots in my head. When I mentioned them to others, I always heard the same surprised response: “You remember that? I can’t remember that far back.” But I could. Although I’m not unique in this, I’ve found it rather rare. Most people can’t remember their earliest years, apparently. Most people seem to have difficulty even remembering high school, let alone their preschool years. Don’t get me wrong, those early memories aren’t that detailed; they’re largely emotional moments, like a memory of me and my cousin Keith being pushed in strollers.

A lot of my earliest memories involve Keith. He and I are only two months apart, and we lived only two doors apart, so he would factor large in them, wouldn’t he? Not all, but most.

I don’t know how many people remember learning to walk, but I do. I’d shuffle along a piece of furniture and when I reached its end, our dog Cookie somehow knew that I needed help and would be by my side. I would take hold of her and catch a ride to the next couch or chair, where I’d take hold of it and shuffle along until I needed her help again.

I remember playing in puddles, all dolled up in a mud suit and rubber boots. I’d jump in, stamping them, watching them spray, spattering my legs, and I’d laugh.

I remember riding a “hobby” horse so hard that the springs should have broken. I’m astonished that I kept my seat.

I remember my mother not wanting to be bothered with putting my boots on when we were on our way to Uncle Jerry’s (Keith’s father), so she zipped my into my one-piece snowsuit, and swaddled me up in a blanket instead, carrying me the short distance down the street and up the single path to the house. My uncle was the most judicious of shovellers, clearing just enough for his car and a footpath up to his house, and he did this every year, because later on, when I was a year older, I remember mounting that slight, but seemingly endlessly steep hill, the banks as high as houses.

Later still, Keith and I decided we were going to Gramma’s house for cookies (she was always Gramma, never Grandma). We jumped on our trikes and ventured out. Cookie followed. Cookie always followed me. I suspect she had it in her mined to keep us safe. It was no simple venture for two three-year olds to go to Gramma’s house; we had to cross one of the busiest streets in Cochrane to do so, and another besides. When we arrived, Gramma met us at the door. “What are you doing here?” she asked, as surprised as can be by our arrival. “We came for cookies,” we said. So, she invited us in, served us our much sought-after milk and cookies...and called our mothers. When our obviously fearful and furious mothers arrived, I found myself hauled to the car by an arm, then hurried on my way by a quick rap to the behind.

Summers were spent on Rancourt Lake, just ten minutes from our driveway. For a child of two or three it was a long haul. I’d grow inpatient, eager to be where we were going, a place of fun and friends, of boats and wading in shallows, of scary fish, and of cousins. I’ve memories of being bathed at water’s edge, of thunderstorms, of my parents playing cards at the dining room table, of board games. There was a woodstove, almost never fired, and a TV, one that played little but snow.

Later still, Keith and I were packed up for school, where there was finger painting and pictures on the wall, A for Apple and B for Bees. Carefully drawn letters, in both capital and lower case topped the blackboard. I remember the first day after Christmas vacation most vividly, though. I arrived wearing new mittens. I was in a panic at day’s end. I couldn’t find them. I searched and shifted the many other mittens, the coats and boots looking for them. I enlisted the aid of the teacher, but my mittens were nowhere to be found. “You lost them,” she said. But I hadn’t lost them. I’d specifically placed them in my coat pocket after showing them off to my classmates. They’d been stolen. But who to blame? To this day I can’t believe that the teacher sent me out into the cold without mittens. The distance could not have been long, five or six blocks, I imagine, from school to home, but it was bitterly cold. My hands were frozen. My cousins came to my aide. “Where are your mitts?” they asked. I don’t know, I said. I couldn’t find them. They waved down more cousins, and one arrived on a snowmobile. He set me in front, facing him. He undid his snowsuit and told me to reach around and hug him. “Hold on,” he said, and raced me home. I’d never travelled so fast. My mother was livid. She tied strings to my mitts for years, and thread them through my sleeves.

Those are my memories of Cochrane. Not all. I remember uncles and aunts and carnivals and the hill behind my house. I remember Christmases, dressed up so smartly in jacket and clip-on tie. I remember my room.

I remember the day we left Cochrane.